Title: Adelphos

Rating: T

Summary: Actions always have consequences, and deals with the devil more so than most. It was Allan's mistake—Allan's deal—but it's his best friend who suffers. Slight Will/Djaq.

Disclaimer: If I owned bloody Robin Hood, I wouldn't've made Allan be such a prat and make a bloody deal with Gisborne. Ergo, me no own. Happy?

It's an idea that's been bugging me since Sisterhood, and I finally got around to writing it after tonight's episode. Robin and Marian are so cute… Unfortunately, that has no bearing on this fic, which is kinda dark. Ha. Kinda.

If anyone's interested: the title means "brother" in Classical Greek. -is a geek-

R&R is blessed to the Muse, might make her get back to work on Fevered Dreams, and enjoy!

Adelphos

He has always thought that it would be better to die on his feet, and it looks like he'll be getting his wish, albeit not in quite the manner he anticipated.

His glorious death—the one he has visualised in his mind's eye—has been full of overwhelming odds and heroic fighting. In some thoughts, he is protecting an injured Robin, giving him just enough time to flee and escape; in others, it's a child—a young boy—whose life he is saving. In some he is injured himself, in others he's hale and hearty, and in others still he is in better health than he has ever been in his life. But he's never dreamed that it would end like this.

Yes, he's on his feet. But his knees have given out long ago, and he wishes that he could lay on the cool stone floor—just for a moment—and press his boiling cheek to the chill of the earth. He doesn't want to die standing now, not any more.

The Sheriff is mad. Not just angry, not just furious, but absolutely mad. Robin has robbed him—robbed him so thoroughly he can't see straight—and Vaizey wants blood. And, apparently, he'll settle for any of the gang.

So here he is. Shackles are locked around his wrists, keeping him on his feet, but he hangs slumped between them, his chin resting on his chest. Sweat beads on his skin in the harsh candlelight, shimmering over cuts and bruises and deep, bloody gashes. He is naked, and no part of him has escaped his jailers' loving attention.

God, he hurts.

"You will tell me where your little outlaw friends are hiding." The voice is a hiss in the heat of the cell; a hiss that rolls around him and sends him spinning.

Pain. Heat. Fear.

He tries to laugh. He tries to smile and show them that he is not afraid. But he fails – the rough skin of his lips cracks, and blood runs down his chin. He barely notices. "Never," he husks.

A fist lands in his jaw; a fist wearing a gaudy ring. He feels his flesh tear from the force of the blow, and it is all he can do not to scream. His muscles tense and his eyes squeeze shut as he tries to detach himself from the pain: he can hear Vaizey through the buzzing in his ears. "Make him talk, Gisborne."

"Yes, my Lord." That is Sir Guy, and his stomach twists.

—he was in Nottingham with the others, and they were running and laughing, but he was just that tiniest bit too slow, and he fell with a cry as Gisborne's arrow hit him in the shoulder, and he remembers thinking through the haze of pain that he couldn't ever remember Gisborne using a bow before, and all he could focus on was Djaq's face as she screamed his name as John dragged her away—

A knife glistens in the candlelight, and he forces himself back to lucidity. The pain has receded somewhat, but it is still there – a dull, pulsing throb in the back of his mind. The blade is laid against his cheek, and Gisborne's dark eyes stare down at him. "Want to talk, outlaw?"

He gives no answer.

The knife is ripped down, and he howls. He expects more—more slashes, more rips, more pain—to follow instantly on the heels of the first, but nothing else happens. He slumps down, tears beading in his eyes, trying resolutely not to let them fall. He can't see – sweat blinds him.

"What are you doin' to him?"

His head jerks up, and he blinks his eyes clear. He knows that panicked voice – knows it as he knows his own. Maybe even better than he knows his own, seeing as he hears this voice an awful lot more than he hears his own. "Allan?" he rasps, his voice hoarse from the screams and the silences.

Allan surges forward, fear and concern in his gaze, but Gisborne shoves him back. The outlaw's lips curl back in a snarl, and he rounds on Guy. "This wasn't the deal!" he spits.

The deal?

Vaizey laughs. "It's always so funny when they realise that their carefully made plans and back-ups have just crumbled like a flimsy little house of cards," he muses happily.

"Let him go," Allan demands, fingers curled into fists, sharp eyes flickering from his friend to his enemy and back again.

"Ah, no."

There is the rasp of steel, and suddenly Allan is armed, his weapon a hairsbreadth from Vaizey's throat. "Let him go," he says lowly, "or I'll slit your throat right here."

"And then what'll you do?" Vaizey asks, just as soft. "There are a hundred guards between you and your forest, outlaw, and I don't think they're going to respect your deal with Gisborne any longer. You are trapped, my friend. And I will torture yourlittle friend as much as I want to."

Allan lowers his sword. His head is bowed.

No… Don't let them do this. Please. He tries not to whimper.

"Gisborne, let's have another chair brought for our good friend," Vaizey instructs, a smirk adorning his greying features – a tiny red stone shines in the candlelight. "Give him a front seat for the action, so to speak."

And then Allan laughs lowly. "A hundred guards?" he asks, his expression tight.

"Well, maybe not a hundred," Vaizey admitted bemusedly. "Maybe closer to fifty…"

"And that whole idea of yours depends on me coming here alone."

"What?" Vaizey demands, softly, lowly. He is beginning to catch on.

And then the room is filled with shouts and cries, the grind of steel on armour and the crack of arrows through the air. The man hanging from shackles, his vision blurred with confusion and pain, struggles to understand. His head is a blurry mess – colours, faces, sounds and feelings all blended into a white-hot jumble.

His head hurts, and blackness swims through his mind.

His eyes roll back in his head as the fight grows around him, and the last thing he hears before the darkness eats him up is a woman's voice crying his name, and his heart twists.

---------

The breeze is cool against his fevered cheeks.

He tries to stretch, tries to arch his body off the roughness beneath his back, but he lets out a whimper of pain as bright light sears behind his eyelids. Liquid warmth runs down his side, and he forces his eyes to open.

"Lay still."

It's her voice again – the woman's voice he remembers crying his name. His forehead furrows lightly as he gazes up at her: Djaq.

"Djaq?" He tries out the name.

The barest hint of a smile flickers through her dark eyes. "Yes, Will. You're safe now."

But then her hands touch his bare chest, and the pain lances through him, and the darkness snatches him with a cry once more.

---------

The next time he wakes Djaq is gone, and it is night.

Scraping a dry tongue over dry lips, he rolls his head to the side. There, silhouetted against the moonlight, sits a man re-stringing a curved bow: Robin.

"Robin…"

He looks up. A smile splits his weathered face. "You're awake." There is a hint of surprise in his voice.

"What happened?" It's a simple question, but it drains his energy. He lies back, feeling the night air whisper across his still-naked torso, waiting for an answer.

Darkness shines from Robin's eyes. "Allan," the other answers softly. "He made a deal with Gisborne – information in exchange for money. He told Gisborne and the Sheriff that we were planning to go into Nottingham that day."

"This wasn't the deal!"

A vitriolic voice, full of anger and passion, but it's just a memory. A painful memory.

"You were hit and fell," Robin continues. "There were too many guards – we couldn't get to you. Gisborne took you." There's compassion and regret in his eyes.

"And Allan?" He doesn't know how he manages to get those two words out.

Robin's fingers tighten around his bow. "He's here."

He's safe.

It's an illogical thought—Allan nearly got him killed—but it's the one that runs through his mind. He smiles. Robin frowns at him. "Will?"

But the darkness, ever lurking in his mind, pounces on him once more.

He is lost.

But Allan is safe.

---------

Sunlight filters through the leafy tree-tops and bathes his face in soft light. For a minute he just lies there, letting the light banish the darkness. He is aware of so much – the song of the birds in the trees, the buzz of insects in the undergrowth, the warm breeze against his still-bare skin. Vaguely, he wonders where his shirt has gone.

He hears someone moving near him, and he decides to ask them. "Where's my shirt?"

He hears a curse and a clang as nearby something heavy is dropped and rolls away. The leaves beside him crunch. "Will?"

Allan. He doesn't need a visual prompt for this member of his group of more-than-friends. He opens his eyes, and looks up into Allan a Dale's face. "Allan."

Allan seems frozen.

Will decides to prod him. "Shirt? I'm cold."

"Djaq said you shouldn't move yet," Allan manages.

"Blanket?"

Allan nods, and he runs to his own rudimentary sleeping pallet, bundling up his tattered blanket. He brings it to his fallen friend and lightly lays it over the other's scarred chest.

For a moment, he just crouches there, staring.

But then he speaks. "Will, I didn't know what was going to 'appen. I never wanted this. You've gotta believe me." The words are pouring out in a rush, and he doesn't seem to be able to stop. "I 'ad to make the damn deal – Gisborne woulda killed me. I'm sorry, Will—"

"I know," he interrupts softly. He's still weak, but that doesn't stop him reaching up and letting his hand rest on his best friend's arm. His fingers are bound, wooden splints strapped up with strips of shirt.

—the hammer glinted in the candlelight as it was raised, and he screamed—

"Will…"

"Just a mistake, Allan. Not your fault."

"You could 'ave died."

He shrugs slightly, studiously ignoring the pain that tears through him at the motion. "Didn't."

"You could have!"

"But I didn't." It must be his quiet certainty that convinces Allan, because it's definitely not his words. "And you gave up everything to rescue me. That counts."

"When are you going to stop being so trusting?"

"When you stop gambling."

Allan laughs softly. He slips his friend's arm back down to rest beside his torso. "Rest," he commands. "If Djaq comes back and you're awake…" He whistles between his teeth. "Won't be pretty."

He smiles and closes his eyes. "Be here when I wake up, brother?" he asks quietly, feeling his strength slipping away. He doesn't quite understand why the last word slips in, but he can't take it back. He's too tired, anyway.

He doesn't see the wetness that glimmers in Allan's eyes, but he hears it in his voice. "Always."

Will feels warmth spread through him, and he steps willingly into the darkness.

--end--